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There was nothing nice about this town anymore.
More to the point, there was never really anything nice about this town in the first place.
Not that people knew it, but it wasn't all that great before the bombs were dropped. In fact, if it had been chalked up as a loss, it may've had a lot more potential for improvement. Or at least pity.
But no one gave a damn about it. It was always a hellhole, and it would remain that way as long as the earth still spun on its axis in either direction. It was a place for degenerate scum to cling to, and decent people to avoid like a plague.
It was not the home of anyone of a sane mind.
"Hoo-ha!" Trevor bellowed. "Just lookee what I found! A bullet hole!" He leaned towards the wall, looking intently at the freshly made hole. It was the diameter of a soda can, and the red brick had melted around it.
Just as he was investigating further, a whizzing noise snapped past his head.
"Oh my!" he cackled. "Another one! Just my luck!" This one was even more recently made than the first. In fact, there were still traces of flame in its core.
Soon he found a third, then a fourth. He was in absolute glee.
"Hot damn, I love this town!" he called out to absolutely no one.
Then no one answered. A certain no one with a very large gun and an angry look on his face. There were several other no ones standing alongside him.
"Hey, you'ze!" the no one called. This particular no one had a faded black jacket that said 'Skeets' on the pocket. When Trevor turned around, he marveled at it. 'Skeets,' he thought. I wish I had a cool name like 'Skeets.' Shame it's wasted on a no one like him.
Skeets seemed to be missing the obvious concentration that was keeping Trevor so occupied that he couldn't answer. So, going by the official No One Code Book Rules, he got all in a huff and walked up to Trevor, gun raised.
"I said, 'Hey, you'ze,'" he repeated, very slowly, but not with any further thought to proper diction. But Trevor was never a stickler for such things. And he could accept just about anything from a man with such a cool name as 'Skeets.'
"Hi'ya'," Trevor waved warmly, his ruddy black nails, in desperate need of a trim, popping out the missing fingertips of his favorite old gloves. "Hi'ya', Skeets," he corrected himself.
This caused the no one with the very cool gang name to look back at his no one brigade in confusion. Another no one, sans gang name on jacket, pointed to Skeets' advertising apparel. He looked down, reacquainted himself with his outfit, and then turned back to Trevor, to whom the entire enactment seemed to take way too long. So, he'd gone back to examining the bullet holes, which now seemed to have sadly cooled down. By the time Skeets reached his shoulder and was tapping on it (or shoving, rather), he'd lost interest in them altogether.
When he gazed once again at the no one, he had an extraordinary view of the beautiful jacket, and the dazzling logo. He noticed now that the name was written in a script that was meant to resemble blood trickling. He was overcome with envy.
"I have to say this," he gawked, "and I hope you don't think me too forward... but that it the most incredible leather I've ever seen."
Skeets was stunned once more into his fashion reevaluation. Trevor ignored it and went on.
"I mean, it's so marvelously mondo-rad, I'm really sorry I don't have one just like it myself, so then I could tell you to take yours off and stop being a mocker of my ultimo-coolness."
Dead stare.
"No, really. Did you come up with 'Skeets' all on your own, or does it have some religious meaning in your family?"
One of the no ones behind Skeets cocked his gun at this comment, feeling somebody really had to do something. Another no one had thought along the same lines, but had instead chosen to light a cigarette.
Skeets didn't smoke, so he cocked his gun too.
"Oh," Trevor frowned. "So it is religious then?"
Around the corner in a back alley, a rat scurried along hurriedly, trying to escape the hail of gunfire emanating from the street, as well as the uproarious screams of apologies from an obviously insane person who was secretly deeply hurt inside that he was in need of a manicure, a new jacket, and a really cool nickname.
More to the point, there was never really anything nice about this town in the first place.
Not that people knew it, but it wasn't all that great before the bombs were dropped. In fact, if it had been chalked up as a loss, it may've had a lot more potential for improvement. Or at least pity.
But no one gave a damn about it. It was always a hellhole, and it would remain that way as long as the earth still spun on its axis in either direction. It was a place for degenerate scum to cling to, and decent people to avoid like a plague.
It was not the home of anyone of a sane mind.
"Hoo-ha!" Trevor bellowed. "Just lookee what I found! A bullet hole!" He leaned towards the wall, looking intently at the freshly made hole. It was the diameter of a soda can, and the red brick had melted around it.
Just as he was investigating further, a whizzing noise snapped past his head.
"Oh my!" he cackled. "Another one! Just my luck!" This one was even more recently made than the first. In fact, there were still traces of flame in its core.
Soon he found a third, then a fourth. He was in absolute glee.
"Hot damn, I love this town!" he called out to absolutely no one.
Then no one answered. A certain no one with a very large gun and an angry look on his face. There were several other no ones standing alongside him.
"Hey, you'ze!" the no one called. This particular no one had a faded black jacket that said 'Skeets' on the pocket. When Trevor turned around, he marveled at it. 'Skeets,' he thought. I wish I had a cool name like 'Skeets.' Shame it's wasted on a no one like him.
Skeets seemed to be missing the obvious concentration that was keeping Trevor so occupied that he couldn't answer. So, going by the official No One Code Book Rules, he got all in a huff and walked up to Trevor, gun raised.
"I said, 'Hey, you'ze,'" he repeated, very slowly, but not with any further thought to proper diction. But Trevor was never a stickler for such things. And he could accept just about anything from a man with such a cool name as 'Skeets.'
"Hi'ya'," Trevor waved warmly, his ruddy black nails, in desperate need of a trim, popping out the missing fingertips of his favorite old gloves. "Hi'ya', Skeets," he corrected himself.
This caused the no one with the very cool gang name to look back at his no one brigade in confusion. Another no one, sans gang name on jacket, pointed to Skeets' advertising apparel. He looked down, reacquainted himself with his outfit, and then turned back to Trevor, to whom the entire enactment seemed to take way too long. So, he'd gone back to examining the bullet holes, which now seemed to have sadly cooled down. By the time Skeets reached his shoulder and was tapping on it (or shoving, rather), he'd lost interest in them altogether.
When he gazed once again at the no one, he had an extraordinary view of the beautiful jacket, and the dazzling logo. He noticed now that the name was written in a script that was meant to resemble blood trickling. He was overcome with envy.
"I have to say this," he gawked, "and I hope you don't think me too forward... but that it the most incredible leather I've ever seen."
Skeets was stunned once more into his fashion reevaluation. Trevor ignored it and went on.
"I mean, it's so marvelously mondo-rad, I'm really sorry I don't have one just like it myself, so then I could tell you to take yours off and stop being a mocker of my ultimo-coolness."
Dead stare.
"No, really. Did you come up with 'Skeets' all on your own, or does it have some religious meaning in your family?"
One of the no ones behind Skeets cocked his gun at this comment, feeling somebody really had to do something. Another no one had thought along the same lines, but had instead chosen to light a cigarette.
Skeets didn't smoke, so he cocked his gun too.
"Oh," Trevor frowned. "So it is religious then?"
Around the corner in a back alley, a rat scurried along hurriedly, trying to escape the hail of gunfire emanating from the street, as well as the uproarious screams of apologies from an obviously insane person who was secretly deeply hurt inside that he was in need of a manicure, a new jacket, and a really cool nickname.
